Mending
by wp1fan
Summary: "I'm not going anywhere until I get some answers as to why you're evidently injured and not in a hospital."  Minor,synopsis mainly,SPOILERS for "Headhunters" 4x21. *Chapter 5 up now. COMPLETE
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Man, the response to my last fic was so overwhelming that I was a bit teary-eyed. I owe each and every one of you who read a huge thank you, and those who stroked my ego, well, this is for you. This is MUCH different than the last one, though. I wanted to try angst, so I did. Not sure how long I can keep it up, though. I'm a sucker for a happy ending, so that will happen here too. This has SPOILERS for "Headhunters", but just really the synopsis of the episode because there's not much more than that out there.**

**A/N: If I win the MegaMillions, I'm going to try to negotiate something here. Otherwise, not mine (yet!). **

"Tell me where he is." Beckett strides down the hallway of the unfamiliar precinct then stops, her breathing still uneven, uncomfortable when she sees Esposito and places her demand.

She can tell by the look on his face that her arrival was unexpected, but doesn't exactly take Esposito by surprise. "Beckett, I told you I got this. I just called 'cause I thought you should know. It's all good. I don't know much yet, but…I'll handle things."

"Where is he?" She repeats it more firmly this time and can see that her glare is causing him to squirm a bit.

He pulls himself upright, stands taller from where he had been leaning against the wall, waiting. But, she still looks damn intimidating. Things have just been super weird between her and Castle lately and…this is probably not a good idea. He nods his head towards the door to the left of them, giving her the information she wants. "You got this, then? I'm heading back to the Twelfth. Gates keeps asking Ryan where I am and he's a horrible liar. I'm going to make an appearance. Call if you need anything?"

She blinks slowly and clenches her jaw. "Yeah. Yeah, I got this." She has no clue if she really _has_ anything, no clue what she's getting ready to walk into. But, it can't be that bad. He's here, in their precinct, not in a hospital. She places her hand on the handle and takes a deep breath before opening the door.

She might be wrong; she can't handle this.

Castle is sitting on top of this breakroom's table, long legs dangling off the side, torso naked, arms behind him supporting his leaning body, head tilted back. An unfamiliar man is standing in front of him, but she can still see Castle's face over his shoulder. His eyes are screwed shut, flanked by the little wrinkles that usually only accompany his brightest of smiles. His mouth is set in a firm, thin line, white of teeth visible where they're punishing his bottom lip in a strong bite. He's in pain.

Then she sees why. Blood. Lots of blood. His royal blue shirt is wadded on a chair next to the table. It has turned navy in large patches, darkened by his life's liquid being spilled upon it. But he's here, not in a hospital, she reminds herself. He's fine.

The unfamiliar man is still poking around on him, shielding the part of his body she needs to see. She wants to push him out of the way, see for herself the source of his pain. She doesn't need to; the man moves towards another table to grab a towel and she sees then.

He's _not_ fine.

She's dizzy. The right side of his body has been filleted, thick crimson blood still leaking through the seams of the dark, angry stiches. "What the hell is going on here?"

Castle's eyes shoot open and the two other men in the room turn to look at her. She recognizes the man watching the action with arms crossed, fingers drumming his elbow and foot tapping nonchalantly. Detective Ethan Slaughter, the head of this precinct's Gang Task Force, is only known to her because of a couple of brief run-ins where cases overlapped, but she knows a lot _of_ him. He has a reputation as a no-nonsense, not-quite-by-the-book (_but we'll overlook it this time)_ Detective. In other words, he gets results, gets shit done. By any means necessary. But results often equal a raised rug, with all indiscretions and corruptions swept tidily underneath.

"Beckett." Castle doesn't say anything else. But the way he says her name (the name he hadn't used regularly in so long before a couple of weeks ago) lets her know that he's not happy that she's here. If he is going to say anything else, it's interrupted by Detective Slaughter anyway.

He steps towards her, smarmy smile on his face, hand outstretched. "My, my Detective Beckett, lovely as always. It's been too long."

She ignores him, makes no move to shake his hand, instead closes in on Castle. He tries to straighten up on the table, probably to puff his chest in defiance, but he can't manage. The pain steals his breath and he slouches back to his original position. "I'm fine, Beckett. You can go."

"I'm not going anywhere until I get some answers as to why you're evidently injured and not in a hospital." She's not talking to Castle, but to Slaughter, who is still smiling, clearly enjoying the charged atmosphere.

Castle is the one who replies, though. "You're not owed any answers." His voice is cold and she feels her stomach churn in response. She doesn't know what's causing him to act this way, but she's tried to be non-confrontational about it, hoping it was a phase, mid-life crisis, something else far-far away from the precinct bothering him and that he'd simply trust her with it in his own time. But, he's freezing her out, and she can only think that if_ he's_ the cold, who will be her warmth? "You're not my keeper, Beckett."

"No. I'm your _partner_."

He looks miserable at that statement. And he opens his mouth to respond, but again Slaughter steals his voice.

"Actually, he's _my_ partner. This week, at least. And, if I have my way, once this mends up," he gestures his finger towards Castle's side, "he'll be my partner permanently. Right, Rick?" He smiles at Castle, smugly reminiscing. "What was it you said? If you based a character on me, you wouldn't even have to change his name? Mine was already bad-ass?" He laughs.

Castle nods, but looks uncomfortable. She doesn't like this, any of it. She wants to shut him up. The more he talks, the more her chest tightens. Surely Castle wouldn't leave her; why would he leave her? _Partners. Always. Always. Always. Always._

"So, Nikki dies, I take her place. Kick ass and take names. Another best seller for you, my friend." He points to Castle with flourish. "Hell, I've got stories that you could base hundreds of best sellers on."

Her breath catches at '_Nikki dies_' and Castle is staring at her. She glances away, anywhere but him. But looking at his future muse doesn't help either. She looks to the man who was tending to Castle's injuries, forgotten in the corner of the room now, his gloved hands placing Castle's blood-soaked shirt in a bag. She wants to cry. Wants to walk out of here and never look back. That's obviously what _he _managed to do. _Why?_ Only she followed. So, she's here now. And when she walks away, it's over, right? Over. _Don't you dare cry._

"None of that's set in stone, Ethan."

He appears conflicted, the same closed-off look that he's been wearing for weeks is in place, but beneath it is a softer flash of regret. She's sure that logically his statement should give her some hope, but it doesn't. It just reiterates the truth. That he's at least thought about killing Nikki Heat, metaphorically leaving Kate Beckett dead to him, no longer needed. She's not CIA; she can't be resurrected like Derrick Storm. When he doesn't desire her personally and doesn't need her professionally, it will be officially concluded. Their ending, the final chapter. Unsatisfactorily complete.

"It will be, my man. You and me, partners in crime. And in cold hard cash, too, right? Hey, Beckett, question. Rick said you wouldn't take a cut of the royalties from his books, why's that?"

The question surprises her. Castle offered her money one time shortly after Heat Wave was released, a check that she never saw the amount of, didn't want to. She ripped it in half and handed it back to him. He seemed dismayed at first, but when she told him that she didn't mind having him around and he didn't have to pay to keep her company, he smiled and thanked her. She told him that if he ever brought it up again, they'd be over. She wasn't sure if her punishment would be that drastic, but he had respected her wishes regardless.

"Because they're not my words, they're his. And, as evidenced by the fact that I'm about to pass the torch here, muses are clearly very replaceable." The detective's apathetic shrug cuts through her. "Listen, that's not why I'm here. I asked you previously why he isn't in a hospital, and I want an answer. Now."

"Listen, it's no big deal. I was in the middle of an apprehension of a gang leader, big time bust. I was chasing the kid down the alley and he was in the wrong place at the wrong time. It's just a flesh wound. Took the blade like a man." He pompously looks over to Castle and nods his pride. "There's a lot of time and paperwork involved in situations like this once the hospital gets involved. I don't need Internal Affairs hovering around here and Rick was cool with that. My buddy Jerry was a volunteer EMT in college and has done a nice job patching up Mr. Castle."

"It'll probably be a cool scar." Castle makes a half-hearted attempt at levity, but it falls flat.

"I can't believe what I'm hearing here. Surely you're not that big of an idiot?" She spits the question at Castle who looks worn down and still in agony.

"I don't know, Beckett," he sighs. "It was my fault for getting in the way. I know how much you hate paperwork, and that's just on the open and shuts. He could be getting gang members off of the streets in the time it would take to wrap up this mishap." She can tell that the last part of this had been drilled into his head by Slaughter, guilting him into acquiescing to getting sewn up in a dirty breakroom.

"Come on, Castle." She motions for him to come with her, moving near to help him off the table. He shifts a little and she can see the tremble of pain run through him. He masks it quickly, but fear is present behind the default irritation he wants her to see. This may be the last thing she gets to do as his partner and walking away before she gets him help is not an option now. The jacket laying on the floor is only minimally stained (he must not have been wearing it) and she picks it up and holds it open, an offer for his bare arms to slip into it.

She can see him warring between logic, humility, and this cavernous revulsion of her that's slowly splintering her heart. She can't help but wonder if she was wrong in not letting Esposito handle this. She needs reinforcements. "What do I tell Alexis if something happens to you?" That has his attention. "Blood poisoning, tetanus, gangrene…I could give you a laundry list of things that don't end well if this isn't treated properly."

"You're being melodramatic. If you want to take him home and kiss his boo boo, just tell him that."

"You're an asshole." She hates that he's gotten her to crack, but she's had enough.

"Part of my charm."

She's not sure Castle is paying them much attention. When she turns to him, he's half off the table, trying to balance his weight to minimize the stretch and pull of the open flesh. She palms the muscles of his back to steady him as he gets to his feet. His skin is cold and clammy and she's worried about his well-being. _Leave me if you must, but not like this._

"You're going?" Slaughter asks, resentment and anxiety evident in his question. There's more going on here than meets the eye, but she doesn't care right now.

"I won't tell them what happened. And you won't either," he voices the last part to Kate, obviously a stipulation to him leaving with her. She'll take it.

"Fine."

"You must be a good lay to have him wrapped like that."

"Ethan…" Castle warns through clenched teeth, detestation creeping into his countenance.

Slaughter raises his palms in a gesture of innocence. "Hey, hey, I'm not judging. I wouldn't say no to a roll in the hay with that either."

Kate sees Castle toy with defending her honor, but he's either not physically able (_he's not) _or he resolves that it's not worth it. She doesn't have the energy to ward off his innuendo either. What they are (_were, _she reminds herself) isn't this man's business and she's already wasted more time than she's comfortable with quarrelling with him.

Castle props against the doorjamb, exhausted after only a few steps. He's waiting on her, his eyes telling her to let it go. Let it go, like he's letting her go.

****

**Thanks for reading. There will probably be more. Like I said, angsty endings aren't really my cup of tea. :-) I'd love to hear what you think so far. **


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Amazing, amazing readers. I'm a slow writer-I'll admit it. But, this awesome feedback(and my love for these two characters) has got me wanting to write ALL the time. I'm still slow, but I'm doing it a lot more. So, thanks. Also, I really appreciate all the prayers and nice thoughts you guys are sending regarding my mom and her upcoming surgery. Many thanks there, too.**

**P.S. These characters still don't cooperate or go in any direction that I prod them in. **

**Disclaimer: Don't sue me.**

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He awakens to his face smashed against the glass of the car window, a dull torment pulling at his right side…and cool fingers sliding along his neck, cheek and forehead. _Kate's fingers. _

Her touch always serves to make him feel restored, make his aches lessen. Oh, but that was a different Kate. _Or a different me_, he realizes. She's the same person, but every interaction he's had with her has been clouded by his feelings. He's found himself looking back on all the times he was _sure_ she was right there with him, the light in her eyes, smiles, lingering touches. He realizes now that she was only an oasis, a fabricated refuge to a man parched by love, seeing what he needed everywhere it never existed.

He blinks slowly and clears his throat. "Where are you taking me?" He asks the question as he surveys their surroundings. They're clearly outside of the city, driving slowly down a street lined with well-manicured trees and quaint houses.

She removes her hand from his skin at realizing he's awake, and he feels like a fool for missing it. "You're not the only one who _'knows a guy'_" She smiles at little at his questioning gaze. "How're you feeling?"

"Like shit."

"I imagine."

"What do you mean, you 'know a guy'? A doctor?"

She hums a response as she pulls into a driveway towards the end of the block. She kills the engine, unbuckles her seatbelt, then pushes the button to loosen his and leans back into her headrest on an exhale.

"Is it Josh?" This doesn't look like a _Doctor Motorcyle Boy_ type of abode, but hell, what does he know anymore? He _does_ know that he doesn't want Kate's ex-boyfriend touching him. '_First, do no harm'_ apparently didn't apply last fall when he shoved him into a wall and probably would have done worse damage to the Hippocratic Oath if he hadn't been rescued by his daughter. If this is Josh's house, wound be damned, he's walking home. As he stares out the windshield and into the expansive front yard all he can picture are tiny Kates twirling in the grass, playing hopscotch on the sidewalk, laughing and calling for mommy and daddy to join them. In this fantasy, he used to see himself sitting on the porch with Kate, drinking lemonade, stealing deep kisses. Now, the image of Josh flashes into his place. _ 'I know I'm not going to be able to have the type of relationship I want until that wall comes down'._ He naively thought she was talking about him, that day on the swings, but maybe she was talking about Josh. Maybe her wall came down.

"What? Josh? N-, just no." She shakes off another thought and looks at him like he has two heads.

_Well, that's something, at least. _

"Howard Adams, retired M.D. Long story," His eyes must beseech for her to continue because she does. "One of my first cases in Homicide was a murdered wife and teenaged daughter, robbery gone wrong in a convenience store—it went cold, but I could never let it go. Howard was the husband, the father, away at a medical conference at the time—and he couldn't let it go either. He came in every week for an update, but there just wasn't anything. I couldn't stand to file it away, so I took it home with me. He had been left with nothing, Castle, and I couldn't give him closure; I knew that feeling. Every time he came to the precinct, he looked more hollowed out, resigned. I recognized that look from my own father. Dad was newly sober and this man was a fresh alcoholic. I introduced them, hoping on a long shot that dad could help him in some way."

"And?" He was intrigued. He thought about simultaneously losing both Kate and Alexis from his life and shuddered.

"A tip came forward a year later and we caught the guy. Howie and Dad still meet at least once a week for lunch." She smiled at that. He couldn't help but return it. "He helped me a lot…this past summer," she pauses, as if she's letting more out than she wants, but she keeps going. "I was spiraling. And selfish. I left the hospital against doctor's orders and wasn't healed nearly enough to take care of myself and I didn't want anyone else to have to take care of me. But he insisted on helping Dad with my rehabilitation." She looks at him and seems embarrassed to have said all of that.

"I'm glad you had someone to help you." _When I couldn't. _

"Yeah, well, I called him on the way over here and he's ready for you. He runs a volunteer clinic in Brooklyn and told me he'll do whatever he can to help with his supplies from around the house, but he can't guarantee you won't need a hospital."

"Okay." He's cool with that. He thought for sure they were heading straight to the hospital after leaving the precinct anyway. She reaches over him, toying with the seatbelt that she has previously released. It's stuck on the edge of his jacket and she's forced- waist over console-to lean into his space with both arms to untangle it without shifting him too much. He's sure he could help somewhat, but he's frozen, mesmerized by her scent, warmth over him. Her fingers brush his bare abdomen and he jerks in response, and then groans from the sudden movement.

"Sorry," she whispers, and his left hand finds her hip, trying to steady her as she inclines even further into his side of the vehicle. "Whew. There," she puffs out a hot breath in exertion and it fans his chest where the coat has opened. He's completely freed from the seatbelt and it's slowly rucking back into its home by the door. "You ready?"

He breaks eye contact, has to. "As I'll ever be."

**0000000000000000000000000**

Despite the fantasies of astronauts and storm chasers, of fighter pilots and, yes, CIA agents, _this _is the type of man he hopes his father is. Bright, genuine smile, youthful, kind eyes despite his silver hair, with a gentle touch and a concerned countenance for _him_, a man he doesn't even know.

"Alright, son, this is going to hurt."

Kate grabs his hand just as he feels a strong series of pulls down his right side. He grunts against the pain and squeezes her hand, not wanting to, but _needing, needing, needing_ her. The physician has been explaining what he's doing as he's doing it, step by step. He's talking to Kate, but Castle is sure he's mostly doing it to try to distract him. He's trying to be manly here, but damn if this isn't excruciating. Kate still has his hand and it feels too good; he likes the hurt better. Things with Kate will always hurt eventually, he's found out—better to feel the heat of pain in the present than to hide it and be scalded twice as severely later. He knows that burn all too well. He shakes his fingers free of hers.

"Give me just a sec here." The doc is having to remove the stitches that were shoddily seamed into him earlier. Castle bites the inside of his cheek to combat the discomfort, but stops when the metallic taste of blood hits his tongue. "Ah ha. Looky what I found. This little guy was probably causing you quite a bit of needless pain." Dr. Adams holds up his hand to show Castle and Beckett a small piece of metal being squeezed by his tweezers.

"Is that-?"

"Tip of a knife? Looks like it."

"Huh." If this was happening to someone else (or in one of his books), Castle would think that it was pretty cool. But as it is now, the novelty of peril and tragedy is starting to wear thin. _Leave it for Nikki and Rook,_ he thinks, then remembers that they may be towards the end of their story. For years, the prospect of something new—new characters and new adventures—always excited him. Now, his stomach churns at the thought.

"Almost done here, Mr. Castle. I flushed the wound out, which should minimize your risk of infection. One more stich here and we're all done. When was your last tetanus shot?"

"Um, about eighteen months or so ago. Maybe two years?"

"You should be fine there, then." Castle feels another couple of tugs at the site of his injury, then he sees Dr. Adams (_"call me Howie")_ gathering up his medical tools and clearing the small table he was using. "Let me grab some gauze and a script for the pain. Be right back." He holds up a finger as he heads down a hallway and rounds a corner, out of sight.

"Nice guy."

"The nicest."

"Can I pay him?"

She shrugs. "He won't take it."

"A donation to his clinic, then? I can do it anonymously, if you don't think he'd accept that either."

"You will do no such thing, young man." Castle and Beckett both look guilty as he walks back into the room, palming a wad of gauze, with a roll of medical tape looped around a finger. "I'm doing a favor for a friend. No more and no less."

"But—"

"No buts. The more favors I do, the more '_I owe you one_'s I have stored up. I love those. I usually cash them in for homemade dinners."

"_Homemade_ take-out from Kate, then?" Castle jokes, and the physician chortles a deep laugh. Kate sends a faux glare his way, but it's accompanied by a huge, optimistic smile and he regrets his words immediately. He doesn't want her smile, her _'this is my partner, Richard Castle'_ smile. His sharp mind knows the truth, but his heart, the traitorous muscle, still reacts to it, still sees deeper meaning there.

"I don't know, Rick," he drawls out. "Katie makes a mean lasagna." She raises an eyebrow at him in playful defiance, but he doesn't have the energy to banter with her now. "You've really never made it for him?" She shrugs, as if the thought hasn't occurred to her, but that she's open to the possibility. He doesn't want her damn lasagna. "You know what they say, honey, about men and good food, the heart and the stomach." He winks towards Rick and he's dumbstruck. Yeah, he knows the saying, but now his heart is _in_ his stomach.

"Howie—",Kate starts, a pained expression coloring her face.

She looks like she wants to cover her ears and _lalalalala_ until this conversation is decidedly over. "You know your mom and dad did it like this. The stubborn _will they, won't they_ thing. Your dad has told me all these stories. I never met your mom, but I get the feeling she was hardheaded like someone else I know." He smirks. Kate is staring at the man, all wistful and hurt, and…something he doesn't recognize. "Your dad doesn't regret their story, but time sure has a way of thieving life from you and making you wish you could buy more of it. Every second counts." He speaks from experience, and the pain of losing loved ones washes over his face, he doesn't even try to mask it, that part of him. But, it fades after a moment and he looks between the two of them with a smile. "I know, I know. Mind my own business. Got it." Castle just wants to lay it out and tell this nice, match-making gentleman that he loves this deceitful woman, but that he might want to save his breath for a twosome with some hope.

Nothing else is said while his injury is patched, taped, and he has prescriptions for an antibiotic and 'a little something for the pain' in his hand. Kate snatches them from him without asking and he watches her fold the sheets in half and stick them into the front pocket of her jeans. She then leans over to the doctor and kisses him on one cheek while patting the other and whispering a 'thank you so much' to him. Rick expresses the same with a handshake and a promise to keep in touch. He doesn't have the heart to tell him that probably won't happen and it saddens him on levels other than the obvious. He genuinely likes this man.

"I think you're going to be fine. I need you to keep an eye out for fever and infection. I don't think there was any internal damage, but I can't tell for sure without a CT scan and X-Rays. You're going to want someone with you for at least the first twenty-four hours, just to be on the look-out for worst-case scenarios. You may think you can determine yourself if it's getting worse, but it'll hit you fast. Let someone take care of you and don't be stupid." He can feel Kate's eyes on him as he nods. She's nodding too and he thinks she might as well be calling him an idiot. He knows this whole situation was reckless and irresponsible, doesn't need her admonishing glower to remind him.

**0000000000000000000000000**

I'll drop you off at your loft, then go get your prescription filled. Are Martha and Alexis home? I can call and have one of them meet us by the curb to help you in.

"Um." He debates lying to her, but he's pretty sure she's not going to let him out of the car without someone there to assist him. "Mother's in the Hamptons for a couple of days. Alexis is in California with Meredith for the week." He'll leave out the part where he forced them both out of the loft because he is sure he's having a nervous breakdown and he doesn't need them hovering with '_what's wrong, daddy?' _and '_oh, Richard'_ every time he drops his smile.

"You can't stay by yourself," she says as she pulls in front of his building, in a no-parking zone. Perks of being a cop.

"I'll be fine."

"You probably will be, but that's not the point. Howie said—"

"I know what he said," he sighs. And truthfully, the thought of being at home, dying from a veiled internal injury isn't appealing, no matter how morose he's feeling.

"What about…?"

"What?"

"Your…girlfriend?" She whispers the term on a question. She's staring straight ahead, watching pedestrians cross the street at the corner of his building.

"I don't-. Jacinda?" Off her nod, "She's not…around. It wasn't serious." It wasn't _anything_, truth be told. But he's not telling Kate that when this woman kissed him and unbuttoned his shirt, he groaned '_Kate'_ around her tongue. He stopped, embarrassed and ashamed, but she said she knew there was someone else on his mind and that was okay for now. She kissed him again. He pushed her away then, whispering apologies as he called her a cab. He hasn't seen her since.

"Well," she looks over her left shoulder and eases back out into traffic. "Looks like it's just you and me."

**A/N: I was going to do an April Fool's joke by saying that this is "Complete" but I'm not that mean. -) Feedback?**


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: I wasn't a fan of last night's episode, mainly because it broke my heart. I'm still sniffling a bit. I don't think it screwed the continuity of this story up too much though, which I was worried about. **

**I feel redundant saying how much I appreciate your feedback, but it means SO much to me. I get a smile on my face every time I get an alert and with the stress I'm under now, I need those smiles. By the way, another thanks for those of you sending your prayers and thoughts out to my mom. Her surgery is tomorrow (Wednesday) morning at 8:00am in Columbus. I would love it if you guys could keep up the thoughts and prayers.**

**Disclaimer: Not mine. **

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She's taking him back to her place.

Mainly because she's afraid that if she has to run out to grab something for him, he'll lock her out if he's in his own home. He's very obviously not happy about this, and isn't shy about expressing it. He's been grouchier and grouchier on the way back to the city. She knows he's in pain, so she's just letting him whine, only paying half attention and not showing any reaction as she focuses on the road.

"_I'm not really up for a slumber party, Beckett." _

"_I won't be comfortable unless I'm in my own bed, Beckett." _

"_Why do you even feel obligated to do this, Beckett?"_

She stops and levels him a look on that one. She knows the question was rhetorical, him trying to gripe his way under her skin and back to his loft (probably by way of her dumping him on the curb and peeling off). But she answers him anyway. "I'm doing this, because no matter what's going on with you—with us—for the time being at least, you're still my partner. And I don't feel _obligated_. I want to help you." As she pulls in front of the pharmacy and puts the car in park, she touches his leg for emphasis. "I care about you, Rick."

"I wish you wouldn't." The petulant part of him wants to flip her hand off of his knee with force, but he can't. He knows she's not lying this time. She does care about him. He's her partner, her friend. But he wanted more and she knew it (_I love you, Kate)_ and she lied, a punch to his gut, an embarrassment. He's humiliated when he thinks about how he follows her around like a well-behaved (_well, mostly)_ puppy, waiting for his next treat, next morsel of affection from her. And that was enough for so long, when he could stop and picture the future he was waiting for. _Endgame._ His family, both at home and at the precinct, must think he's a damned fool. Palming the back of her hand, he laces his fingers with hers and closes his eyes to savor the touch for a moment. Then, he picks up their joined hands and drops hers gently back to the steering wheel.

"Castle, please tell me what's going on." She pleads it and hates the sound of her own voice. _Please, Castle. Please._

"I'm just tired, Beckett. And I hurt." He says nothing else, simply turns away from her and closes off.

She blows out a frustrated breath and flexes the fingers that were just warmed by his, while resolving that from here on out she's finished with trying to figure out what's wrong. He's, obviously not going to tell her, and each of these conversations is just serving to irritate him more. And she's not sure what answer would really be satisfying anyway. She can do this. _All business._

She exits the car without a look back and enters the store, heading to the pharmacy in the back corner. She wanders the aisles while she's waiting for them to call his name. Her hand slips into her pocket to retrieve her phone when she hears the chime of an incoming text. It's from Esposito. '_Your boy is trying to get me to come and babysit him. U kidnap him?_'

She wants to text something back about how Castle's acting like a child, so the wordage is appropriate. But, she doesn't. _'And you said?'_

'_Said nope. Got plans. He ok? U ok?'_

'_I'll fill you in later. He'll be fine. Tell Lanie I said hi.'_

The winky face he sends in response serves to end the conversation. She's sure the perceptive detective noticed that she didn't answer as to how she, herself, was doing, but she figures she'll get that line of questioning from Lanie tomorrow, has no clue how she'll answer. _I'm not fine._

Kate grabs a couple of bottles of water on the way out of the store and opens the lid on one and pulls a pain pill and antibiotic from their respective bottles before she even gets to the car. When she flops down into the seat, he startles and she surmises that he was probably asleep again. Ass or no, she really does feel sorry for him. Plans of having Esposito and Ryan nose into that bastard Slaughter form in her mind, but she needs to gets Castle on the mend first. She pinches the pills between her fingers and places them at his lips, putting them on his tongue and handing him the water when he opens up. He takes a long swig and gives her a weak smile of thanks before slouching back against the passenger door.

He hates it when she looks at him like that, like she wants to ease all of his pain. And she could, he knows, make it all better. All, but his throbbing heart, the one ache she can't heal. His head hurts, side hurts, heart hurts, and there's not enough pain pills in the world to make that all go away.

**0000000000000000000000000**

"Are you hungry?" She asks as she ushers him into her apartment by his elbow.

"I could eat." He wants to be cantankerous some more and say no, but he skipped breakfast and lunch, so the mention of food makes his stomach grumble for attention. He's feeling pretty good now_ (really good);_ the pain pill kicked in while they meandered through the beginnings of rush hour traffic. He's a little unsteady on his feet, but it's in that good, loopy way. She's scrutinizing every step he takes towards her couch, he can feel it. He used to watch Alexis like that when she was learning to walk and toddled too close to tables with sharp edges.

Even though he's spent most of the morning half-undressed, he suddenly feels very aware and modest as he removes his coat, leaving him clad only in his jeans. He's had dreams like this, ones where he slips out of bed and into only his pants, wanders out of her bedroom to find her reading, cooking, making a grocery list, watching TV, or some other mundane task (_he has this dream a lot)_. In the dream, he slides in behind her, sometimes kisses her bare shoulder _(she's usually half-naked, too, in these dreams)_, sometimes takes her earlobe between his teeth, sometimes spins her around to steal her lips, and sometimes drags her back to bed to make love to her. The only constant in these visions is that he _always_ loves her.

"Can you make it over an hour on the dinner?" She's standing in her kitchen, looking domestic, now bare toes poking out from beneath the hem of her slacks. She's got the refrigerator open and is pulling things out and stacking them on the counter. Yes, he's pretty sure he's had this dream too.

"Yeah. I might just…," he trails off and points towards the couch, taking two throw pillows and tossing them down to one end. A nap sounds even better than food at the moment.

She nods. "I'll wake you when dinner's ready."

**0000000000000000000000000**

Dinner's out of the oven and it smells delicious, if she does say so herself. She's managed to change into some lounge pants and a tee, clean her bathroom, talk to her dad on the phone, and read the side effects of Castle's drugs three times, all while the food was cooking. She's bored, but she's not sure he would be good company even if he was awake.

She sits down on the edge of the coffee table and watches him for a moment. He's on his left side, same arm curled beneath the pillow that his head is resting more off than on. His right arm is bent around the gauze on his side in protection. She'd like to change that bandage tonight, if he'll cooperate. Castle sighs deeply and shifts a little on the couch; his socked feet dangle over the end and he doesn't look comfortable at all. It's dinnertime anyway. Hopefully afterwards, she can convince him to take her bed.

"Castle." She whispers it, so she doesn't startle him. When he doesn't react, her fingers trail lightly up and down, around his bicep. Still nothing. She lowers the small amount that it takes to get to her knees in front of him. She doesn't want him to jerk away and risk the pain that they've finally gotten some semblance of control over, so she cups his shoulder with her left hand to hold him still when he wakes. "Hey." And…nothing. "Castle, dinner," she sing-songs in a whisper that she floats over his ear.

"Mmm." He scrunches his brow, but doesn't open his eyes.

"Food's all done. You ready to eat?"

"Kate." The rich, rumbling way he says her name makes her stomach flip with a surge of arousal. She's ignoring it. This is such a stupid reaction. He's made it abundantly clear that they're nothing more than partn—well, yeah, they're not even really that, are they? And all it takes is for him to say her name all sleepy and deliciously and she's ready to climb on top of him? It's no wonder he doesn't want her—desperate, needy, complicated Kate. Though he needs to be brave enough to tell her he doesn't want her, instead of taking the coward's way out by shunning her from his life. _Break my heart like a man, Castle._ She thought what they had, at least their friendship, meant more to him than that.

"Need you, Kate. Hurts."

His voice startles her and he sounds so unhappy. Anger washes away and she doesn't even attempt to latch on, to salvage any of it. At least for the moment, she's focused on him. He's in pain and she's here. She brushes her fingers through his hair. "Shh. I know it hurts, baby. Can you try to sit up for me?"

His eyes nudge open and he looks disoriented, still dazed. She throws on a small smile and hopes it's soothing. He closes his lids again and she can see them fluttering before opening again, slowly. He's staring at her, like he's not sure why she's there. He reaches his right arm out and two of his fingers pinch the collar of her tee-shirt, fingering the seams and following the vee of the neckline down, down, down _(breath, Kate)_ and back up again, curling his palm around her neck once he reaches the top.

"Castle?"

His answer is to pull her forward, gently and touch his lips to hers. She gasps at his mouth and jerks her head, but his heavy hand is still there, holding her to him. "Kiss me," he mumbles at her lips. "Why aren't you kissing me?"

So, she does. Her mouth is already there, right on his. She takes his top lip between her own, a suck, a bite, a lick, then his bottom lip. He's patient while she attends to the surface of his mouth, but there's more brewing. The want has crept head to toe and back again and now it's settled right in her chest, where she always feels it the sharpest with this man. His tongue is in her mouth now, and she drinks it in, pulling the groan from him. She touches her palm to his abdomen, leans in to keep him in place, he keeps rolling closer, closer. She feels his stomach muscles bunch and tremble beneath her fingers and she rubs, follows the fine hair down to his belt, then puts that temptation in check and heads back up to his chest. His mouth leaves hers with a wet pop, drags down her chin and latches to her jaw, her neck. She flips her head back to make room for what he wants, what he's telling her without words. She doesn't know what they're doing or what it means; she only knows that she'll take it, selfishly.

Fingers, warm fingers, are back to the vee of her shirt and he's tugging enough to sneak a hand in. His fingers span wide like wings, spread to take her breast, fill his hand. They groan together.

"Ow, ow, ow," he hisses, and those words and sounds pull them both out of this bubble of stimulation. He's contorted awkwardly on the couch, and the hand that was warming her sensitive flesh is now gripping the snowy white bandage on his side.

She rises to her feet quickly and the heels of her hands find her eyes and attempt to press away the headache already forming. "Are you okay, Castle?"

"Yes. Yes, fine." He doesn't look any more comfortable than she feels. _Of course not. You just molested him in his drug-induced haze._ He's slid down to the opposite end of the couch and is holding her favorite throw pillow to his chest and lap, in what looks to be an ill-attempt at preserving his modesty.

"Don't apologize. I was trying to wake you and—"

"I kissed you. I didn't mean to. I was, I was dreaming—it wasn't you." _It was Dream Kate. The one who loves me._

"Oh." _The blonde, then? The fun, uncomplicated one? He kisses her like that._

She nods at him, looks defeated and a mess and _he_ did this. His want. He crossed a line without a case, a ruse, to excuse it. She doesn't want him and he just pushes, pushes, pushes until she's hiding from him, lying to him. _Her partner._ She lies because she cares. _Her friend._ He doesn't want her to protect his feelings. He doesn't want her to care, wants her to push him away, because Lord knows he's doing a shitty job of it. He needs his switch in the 'off' position, and needs her to be the one to flick it. He needs her to hate him. He can make that happen, _with a truth_.

"Dinner is ready when you are, Castle." She calls it out from the kitchen, voice completely calm and void of emotion.

"What are we having?" He's not hungry anymore. He's got things to say.

"Lasagna."

After dinner, then.

**0000000000000000000000000**

**A/N: Okay, I went back to duel POVs in this chapter. Does that work okay for you? I did hers in Chapter 1 and his in Chapter 2, but I like this the best, even though I'm sure it could read as confusing. I just like to have the option of my reader always knowing what they're thinking-because these two characters must think a lot, cause they don't usually communicate it. I think what really made me decide to go back to this vantage point is last night's episode, which was done from Kate's POV. That wasn't a bad thing at all (for Kate), but I think it made it really hard to feel for Castle because while he's out with the stewardess, I'm wanting to strangle him. :-) **

**Feedback?**


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: I have so much love for all of you. The reviews are still awesome and they never get old. They inspire me so. When I think I'm done writing for the day, I'll get a random review and open Word. This chapter is for you guys, my muses. **

**The prayers for my mom worked miracles. Literally, miracles, guys. She was going in for surgery on a ureter obstruction. And when he got in there, the obstruction was gone. Poof. She's a little sore, but doing awesome. Got out of the hospital the same day. I will never be able to express how much your thoughts and prayers meant to me. **

**Disclaimer: Not my show. Adore it, though.**

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It _is_ good lasagna. He's finishing his second helping and can't help but notice how she's still picking at her first. Things are weird now. Well, they've been weird for weeks, but…well, the making out didn't help things. All he can think about is her mouth on his, tongue pressing-. Okay, this is going to get more embarrassing if he doesn't stop reliving it. He can tell she's probably thinking about it too by the way she won't meet his eyes. Probably how she didn't want to shove him off of her because of his injury, how she couldn't really stop him as he groped her shamelessly.

Yeah, this whole thing is getting ridiculous. Their broken friendship, ending partnership. The overthinking. The under-communicating. The lies, the deceit.

"I've been investigating your mom's murder." It leaves his mouth without preamble, no time to prepare his words, weigh them in his mouth. No flashy show of handing the remote to his murder board over and watching as she figures it out herself. But, that's what he wanted, right? _Rip it off like a band-aid._

He watches as she stops mid-bite and swallows hard, emotion immediately beginning to cloud her eyes. "I'm sorry?"

"And your shooting, too, actually." He planned this to be a big, bold '_go ahead and let me have it, Kate'_ declaration, but she isn't screaming and yelling like he expected, wanted, needed. "Since last fall," he adds in answer to the question that probably hasn't even had time to formulate in her mind. _Hate me, so I'm forced to let you go. _

He thinks that this is supposed to feel good, feeding her anger. Making her feel like _he_ feels. Not this hollowness that empties him now. She's staring through him, like she's looking for someone else who's not there. He wants to tell her the story of the man she's looking for—_the Richard Castle who loves her so_—explain how he died of a shattered heart. His melodrama is making him weak and remorseful. He's not repentant for his investigation, but for using it now as ammunition, his very own bullet to the heart of their friendship. His own lie, he finally realizes, is no better than hers.

Her fork clatters to the plate and she pushes back from the table and stands, saying nothing as she walks to the sink and slams the dishes in. Hard. "Damn it."

He hears her scolding phrase, but it's under her breath, not aimed at him, and he doesn't know what's going on. The atmosphere in the room is changing, cold, cold. And now he's frozen and can't seem to thaw enough to move from his place at the table. He caused this, but _this_ isn't what he wanted. He wants to take it back, keep his lie. She's still not yelling. Why isn't she yelling?

"Castle, can you-?" She's halfway to him when she stops and gestures to a hallway behind him, a jerk of her head. He's confused at first and then he sees. Her left hand is cupped underneath her right, catching the bright drops of blood as they spill into her palm. "Towels are in the closet. Can you grab me one?"

He's up in seconds and is ignoring the wrenching pull in his side as he hurries to her closet and takes out a deep brown towel that he hopes isn't one of her favorites. It's the darkest one he can find and picks it because he's praying the dark color will mask whatever liquid leaks upon it. Her uniform did that when she was shot, he remembers; the true blood loss not real to him until she was lifted from the green, green grass and he saw the significant pool of crimson she had left behind.

She's back at the sink when he returns, staring down into the stainless steel at the cracked dinner plate and broken shards of her wine glass. The water is running steadily onto her hand, and Castle can see the slice as he approaches, thin, but probably deep if the blood bubbling to the surface over and over again before being washed away, is any indication.

"Here, let me." He pulls lightly on her elbow to get her to face him and she jerks away, taking the towel with her uninjured hand and wadding it around the cut. It's too big and awkward and he wants to help her, but she's turned her back to him now.

"I think you've done enough, don't you?"

_You wanted this. You did this. _

"What are you doing?" She's got her phone and has it flat on the counter, having a hard time sliding the screen unlocked with one hand. He sees her frustration mounting, sees her contemplating ditching the bulky towel, before she finally gets it, taps the screen a few times, and holds the cell to her ear. "Who are you calling?"

"Ryan. You were right. You being here—this is not a good idea."

He snatches the phone from between her ear and shoulder and quickly presses 'end'. He slides it into his front pocket. "I'm not going anywhere."

"Give me my phone."

"Give me your hand."

"What?"

"We'll negotiate. Phone for your hand." He warily takes her towel covered limb and pulls it towards him, and she takes a step closer with the momentum. "Let me clean this up."

"It's not serious. I'm fine."

"Doesn't matter. It'll make me feel better," he persuades, and is jolted back to the reality of what he's done when he sees her weigh those words. Normally his '_Do it for me?' _voice would serve to influence her instantly. He liked that. Used to always think someday he'd have a chance to use that voice when she wanted to read and he wanted to make love after a long day's work. He'd throw her a _'Pretty please?' _and she'd throw him on the bed. _Richard Castle, big ego, even bigger imagination._

"Forgive me if making you feel better is not at the top of my priorities right this second." She sees his hurt countenance, how they destroy one another. She's pissed, but he's injured too and she forgot that for a minute. "But it should be, which is why someone else needs to do this for you. We've got _that_ to worry about," she points to his bare torso, a couple of small specks of blood showing through the gauze on his side. "Your dressing needs changed. This," she holds up her own hand, "can wait. Just needs a small bandage."

"Let's play Doctor, then. Together. You do me, I'll do you." He doesn't mean to pull out his charming smile for her, but the innuendo deems it necessary. They're fighting, they're going to blow up, he knows it's coming, but she's close to acquiescing on this and he's going to take it for now.

"The first-aid kit is in the bathroom," she sighs, defeated.

**000000000000000000000000**

She's sitting on the closed toilet seat while he putters around her bathroom, pulling this and that from here and there and lining up what he thinks they're going to need along the rim of her bathtub. She feels like she's been run over by a truck and it has nothing to do with either one of their wounds, no pain of the physical variety manifesting right now. He's investigating (W_as? Is?) _her mom's case? What the hell, Castle? How the hell could he do this without her?

He balances himself on the edge of the tub and urges her to twist around and face him. Their knees bump in the cramped space and he settles one of his larger ones in between her thighs then lowers her hand down on top of it. He unwraps the towel with one eye open and a wince, and she's not sure if he's attempting to add some comic relief or if he's truly concerned about what the fabric may reveal to him. He's being gentle, too gentle as he picks a few threads from her cut and checks for glass, alcohols it (then apologizes when she hisses), and pinches it together with a butterfly bandage. Both of his large hands are cradling her one and his fingers are playing along her bandage, smoothing edges that weren't rough to begin with. She hates the way his hands make her feel, the way she wants them on her, in her. All over.

She closes her eyes and swallows her ridiculous arousal down, leaving only the taste of aggravation on her tongue. He betrayed her, and for what? Was this some sort of sick competition into who could solve the case first, a challenge for him? Prove to her that he's a worthy partner? A suicide mission? None of it makes any sense.

"Do you want to talk about this now?" Her eyes snap to his on the question. "I can see your wheels turning."

"I can't believe you did this, kept this from me. It should have never happened. This shouldn't be something we _need_ to talk about, Castle." She wants to change his gauze before they go headlong into this argument. She shakes his hands off of hers and grabs the roll of medical tape, ripping several pieces off and sticking the ends lightly to the knee of her pants for use in a moment.

"But, that's your M.O., isn't it? Not saying all the things that need to be said?" He's irritated again, and he's making her dizzy with his sarcasm and capriciousness.

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"I think you know what it means."

"I think I'm tired of you hating me in subtext." She rips at the old tape along his side a little harder than necessary and he winces as his skin jerks with it. "Say what you mean."

"You know damn well that I don't hate you," he growls. She doesn't seem alarmed at what the wound looks like, which he takes as a good sign, although he's not sure she'd flinch at anything right now. She places another piece of gauze over the stitches and he lurches a little at the pressure. The tape goes on quickly, and he can tell that she wants her distance now. It's too much for him, too, but for different reasons. He can't figure out how to manipulate his body and heart to not want her, love her, even though his brain knows he's an imbecile.

"Could have fooled me." She presses her back to the counter by the bathroom sink, as far away as she can get in the small room.

"Oh, don't play coy, Kate."

She opens her mouth to speak, then shuts it again. He's completely infuriating. She takes a deep breath, tries to find a calm center—it doesn't exist. She can't do this calmly, can't process everything thrown at her. "I can't do this right now, Castle."

"What can't you do, Kate? Listen to my truth? I listened to yours. It's only fair to return the favor, hmm?"

She opens her eyes as she feels the energy in the room shift. He's approaching her now, his imposing figure too too close. What truth? He doesn't—no, there's no way he knows. She sees his stormy eyes, his clenched jaw and remembers when she first glimpsed that reaction. Oh, no. Nonono.

She needs space, needs to breathe. She palms blindly on his bare chest, push, push, pushing but he won't budge. "Castle, move," she demands, but he stands tall, strong, his hot exhalations puffing against the top of her head.

"No. You lied to me, Kate, and I want to hear you say it."

"Castle-"

"Say it, damn it."

She's never seen him like this and if she wasn't sure he'd never physically hurt her, she might be frightened. But she's not. Trapped, caged, panicked? Yes. Scared of Castle? No. "We've both lied, Castle," she whispers, both hands still on his chest, ready to shove and move if his stance weakens. "We're both no good."

"I lied to protect you, Kate. They told me they'd kill you if you were involved. I did it _for_ you."

Her lungs hurt from the breaths she's skipping, holding, blowing out forcefully. "Who?"

"I don't know. We'll probably never know. It's big, Kate. So much bigger than you or I." He cradles the back of her head, forcing her eyes to his with his words, his explanation. She blinks slowly as she takes it in.

"You're an idiot."

"I am. I know."

"You could have been killed."

"I'm fine." He's frustrated. He's been cautious. He wanted to tell Ryan and Esposito, get their assistance, but he didn't even do that. He's been _so_ careful.

"Castle, you were _stabbed _today. In an alley. That proves your mortality, don't you see?" Her breath hitches on a dry sob. "The last time someone I care about was stabbed in an alley…well, you know that result. She never got to stand in front of me again. Like you are now."

He never—God, he never thought about the similarities. A twist of a knife in his side managed to also deliver a tragic twist of irony, one that hadn't been lost on her, of course it hadn't. She needs to help him, fix him, save him from this the way she never got a chance to save her, her mother. "I'm sorry, Kate."

"What are you sorry for, exactly?"

"I-" He doesn't finish, can't. What is he sorry for? Can he say '_everything'_ and that encompass it all? Does it need to be itemized? _I'm sorry for coming into your life, for dragging you back down the rabbit hole, for falling in love with you, for almost getting you killed, for never being able to let go. For being me._

"You don't get to keep this from me for months and months, then just apologize because you don't think I'm emotionally stable enough to handle the reality of what you've been doing."

"Isn't that exactly what you did? Lied because I wasn't strong enough to handle your truth, Beckett?"

"That's not-"

"You told a _suspect_ that you remembered everything. _A suspect._ Someone who didn't deserve that information. Me, Kate-," He grasps her fisted hand and strikes his own chest hard with it, driving home his point. "_I _deserved that information. You served your secret up on a platter to a kid as an interrogation technique, for God's sake. How do you think that makes me feel? To know that you lie and lie and lie about hearing me say that I love you."

She closes her eyes shakes her head, closing her fingers around his forearms, gripping tightly. She's exhausted because everything makes sense and nothing makes sense and she just needs him, needs him to keep her upright. "I'm so sorry you found out that way. God, I regret that, Castle."

"We're even, then. Because I regret _saying_ it."

**00000000000000000000000**

**A/N: A reviewer last chapter said I was 'channeling my inner Marlowe' and I don't think it was meant as a compliment. ;-) This ending is for you. Kidding, kidding. I love the man, but I'm pretty sure he gets some sick pleasure out of torturing us. I still don't feel much better about "The Limey". But, I can fix Castle and Beckett in a few days, where he makes us wait long, long weeks. **

**Feedback, please?**


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: Happy Easter, peeps. Here's your final chapter. This has been an awesome experience and I hope to do it again soon (if you're interested...I've got a few ideas rocking around in my head). You people are lovely, plain and simple, and your Reviews, PMs, Alerts, etc. have been SO appreciated and inspiring. This Chapter is Rated M. Hope that doesn't put too many of you off. I don't think it's too vulgar, if that helps. **

**Disclaimer: Not mine. Sad face.**

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"I'm so sorry you found out that way. God, I regret that, Castle."

"We're even, then. Because I regret saying it."

He feels like a little boy pushing the girl he likes into the dirt on the playground. _Take that, meanie._ The remorse hits instantly, the moment he sees her take a stuttering breath and nod her head. She stands resilient in front of him, even as her eyes shine and moisture gathers on her lashes.

_No._

She sniffles once and is still bobbing her head. She gives him a watery smile, so small, so fragile. "That's what I needed to hear."

"Kate—"

"No, really. Thank you for being honest." She looks sincere and that's worse. She's not brushing away the tears sliding down her cheeks and he just wants them gone, gone. He's pretty sure he's going to vomit, he can feel acid rising up his esophagus and he swallows hard, bites it back down. He's hurting her. She hurt him and this should feel good, great maybe—getting even, level the playing field. But it doesn't. He loves her, God he just loves her.

She knew there was always the possibility of him not meaning his words, that day as he hovered above her and begged her from death. This is why she didn't want to bring up his declaration; she didn't want him to feel obligated to repeat it. You can't hold someone to deathbed confessions, no matter which side of death the confessor is on. She needed to hear it again before she could fully believe it came from his heart and not from a deep-seated need to will her back to life. Her wall was real and there, but this fear, this fear was the mortar that held the bricks of unsolved murder, justice, and sorrow together. She let that wall crumble, rubble at her feet now, but she recognizes that she'll just have to build back up the reinforcements, a taller, stronger barricade around her heart.

"Kate, you don't understand," he sighs.

"I don't need to understand. You saved me that day, Castle. That was your mission, what your words were meant to do, right? I can't fault you or hate you for that."

In shock, his posture slackens enough for her to push past him, exiting the bathroom and leaving him standing alone, accompanied only by his thoughts.

Does she really think he doesn't love her? He expected her to call him on his bullshit immediately, push back, _not_ buy right into it. Does she think he just said I love you, what, as a last ditch effort to save her life? He understands that he's cocky at times, but even he knows that no declaration could undo that bullet's place in her chest. His brain wasn't working at all in that moment, let alone enough to hatch a plan to keep her hanging on. He said the damn words because he meant them, still means them.

He wasn't lying-he does regret saying 'I love you'. Then. That day, those circumstances. Every time their lives were in jeopardy, he came close to telling her. The freezer was too cold, paralyzed him. The threat of a bomb too hot, melted the words before they reached his tongue. He almost told her he loved her in Los Angeles, but she was emotionally vulnerable because of Royce and she didn't need further burdened. He nearly told her the day they argued, bickered about their place in each other's' lives. _'I'm your partner. I'm your friend.' _But, he never did. And that day in the cemetery, when it was virtually too late, his heart spilled from his chest, then his lips, not ceased by the ramparts of over-thinking. So, yes, he has regrets, regrets of agony and angst and horrible timing. But, never the act itself. Even now, pain abound, heart heaving in his chest, he doesn't regret loving her.

Even though she doesn't love him, he understands now why she needs his love, why it hurts her to think it's gone. She counts on him, like she counted on so many before him, people she cared about who let her down, left her needing. Her mother's death and father's alcoholism left her abandoned when she was most vulnerable. Then a string of men—some lovers, some friends—disappointed her, didn't get to know the true her (_or left because they did_). They betrayed her, or didn't fight for her when she pushed them away out of fear.

He had promised her _always_ and she took him at his word all this time. And now she didn't. Because he gave her every reason in the world not to.

He needs to find her, tell her that it'll be hard, so hard, but he wants to be in her life in any way she'll have him. He stalks out of the bathroom and into the living room. It's empty. He spins and takes in his surroundings; she's not in the kitchen either. She's gone?

No. Her keys are on the counter where she tossed them earlier. He heads back down the hallway, bypasses the bathroom and the closet he perused earlier. There's only one other door. That door is ajar and he presses his hand to the wood and pushes it open enough to peer in. She's there, on the bed, atop of a comforter, her back against the headboard and legs stretched the length of the mattress. Her head is tilted back slightly, and the features of her face are covered by her forearm.

"Hey," he greets her, quietly, in case she's asleep.

Her arm drops to her lap and she sits up straighter in the bed. She shifts uncomfortably like she want to run, but he shuts the door behind him and she settles on swinging her body around so her legs dangle off the side of the bed. "Hi."

"About earlier—"

"We don't need to do this now." She shakes her head and her hair curls into her face and she looks so unguarded, shielded yet exposed. "Can we just not do this at all, Castle? I don't want the arguing to be what I remember about us."

"You make it sound like I'm dying. Are you planning to kill me?" He smiles and he thinks he almost lures one from her.

"Too much work. You're too resilient."

"Good word. That's me." He sits next to her on the bed, thighs brushing—she stiffens. Too close, then. Too bad. He's the one with the control issues, so it'll be fine. Anyway, he's pretty sure if he moves now, he'll break the spell he's trying to weave here. He places his palms on the mattress behind him and leans back onto them, trying to convey a relaxed posture for her. He grunts a little, a twinge of discomfort from the stretch. She meets his eyes in concern and he shakes it off. "I miss you." He takes his chance, says it before she breaks eye contact.

"Don't."

"Don't miss you or don't voice it?"

"Don't say things you don't mean."

"Only say things I mean." He furrows his brow and tilts his head as if in thought. "Got it. _I miss you_," he repeats. She's watching him, confused and adorable. "I love you."

Her breath catches. "Rick—"

He holds up a finger to shush her. "Just let it be, Kate. It doesn't have to mean anything more than what it is. I just wanted you to know, to know that you didn't conjure up something that wasn't there, didn't count on someone who let you go. God knows I tried to let you go, but it's not possible. When I said you were extraordinary, I didn't even know the half of it then."

Her eyes are wet again, but she doesn't seem as horrified. More perplexed, with a twinge of happiness maybe. "But you took it back, said that you regretted—"

"I know. I take back my take-back." He says it simply, like it should be the most obvious thing in the world. Her expression says she might shoot him, or hug him—he's having a hard time reading this one.

"Why?" She looks like she doesn't believe him. He wants to kiss her because he's pretty sure that's an awesome way to convey everything she means to him, but he's promised himself that he can do this, can just _be_ there for her. Partner and friend. No kissing, no complicating. His mother was right, love isn't a switch you and turn off and on, so he just needs to install a dimmer. He'll show her how much he cares every single day for the rest of his life, but he'll keep a respectable distance. Who knows, maybe someday, she could love him in return? He won't count on it because he knows how deep the stab of unexpected rejection can puncture. They've wounded each other enough.

"I wanted to hurt you the way you hurt me." He shrugs with his words. It really is that simple.

"But you love me?"

"I do. I have for a long time. I'm a coward, Kate. I've never done it like this before, loved someone…just because I love them. Not forced into it because it was supposed to be the natural progression, or they had my kid, or handled my professional life like a champ. I longed for something in return, sure." He slides a knee on the bed and faces her, takes her hand because he wants her to understand. "But, what I _need_ is to be in your life. We can just be friends—we've done that very well for years, even though I had us all smudged up with feelings through most of it then, too. We'll be fine." He's trying to convince himself right alongside her.

"Just friends?"

"And partners, of course. If you'll still have me."

"I want you."

"Good, good. We can do this, Kate. I'm sure of it." He's nodding enthusiastically. He's sure he's going to ask himself a million times over what the hell he was thinking agreeing so assuredly that he can keep his feelings in check. His body is already thrumming with the exhilaration of remaining in her life and it's walking a fine line towards being arousal, which is not going to help him prove his _watch-how-reserved-I-can-be_ point.

"No, Castle. I _want_ you." It's his turn to stare at her, dumfounded.

"Um. I'm pretty sure we're the most horrible conversationalists in the world because—"

"Shut up." Her mouth is on his and his brain is tripping over his tongue, and then _her _tongue, God, _her tongue_ is in his mouth. And, damn. He leans up and into her kiss and palms the back of her head to angle her deeper, slanting his mouth over hers. He sucks, and she moans, and he sucks again because…holy hell she'd better know what she's doing here. He's got no clue.

"Kate," he releases her mouth, swollen lips calling him back, but he resists. "This is probably not a good idea." The tightening of denim near his belt tells him it's a _very_ good idea and he has to close his eyes because her finger tousled hair and heavy-lidded expression scream _'You did this to me, now do it again'_ and his argument doesn't seem to hold much validity. "We can't. The friends-with-benefits thing isn't going to work for us. Too-," he grunts because her fingers are loosening his belt and the top button of his jeans and some of the physical tension is alleviated. And then aggravated all over again. _Geez._ "Too complicated."

"You're probably right." He's relieved and so very _not_ at her statement. The torturous flash of bliss is back as his zipper lowers, tinny sound of teeth unlatching echoing in his ears. This self-control he was just bragging to himself about is keeping him from touching her, but that's pretty much a moot point when his need for her is making itself very evident, pushing into her palm as his hips buck without his permission. "_Partners_ with benefits?"

She's teasing him and he's pretty sure this is a late April Fool's joke, and he's definitely the fool here. She moves her hand from where it was pressed at the opening of his pants and slides it up his stomach, to his chest, going from the heart of his want for her to the heart of his need, and this isn't going to end well. He's losing control quickly, head spinning. He's wondering if this is some sort of horrible _(wonderful?)_hallucinogenic side-effect to the pain pill he took earlier. "Kate. Kate, I'm not strong enough to stop this."

"Good. Switch places with me." She's standing up in front of him and kissing him again, gentler this time, less insistent. She nudges her knees with his to get him to scoot. He obeys. "Lay back," she commands and assists him in lifting his legs on the bed, all while eyeing the bandage on his side cautiously. "I don't want to hurt you."

"We probably shouldn't do this, then." His contradictory mouth finds her collarbone, where her shirt has dipped. He's trying to keep this light, but his chest constricts at how very much this will hurt, having her, but not _having _her. He's pausing to weigh the options in his brain, but his body is moving along without him. His hands grasp the backs of her thighs and jerk until she collides with the mattress and has nowhere to go but up, onto the bed, onto him. "Mm, don't hurt me, Kate."

He's speaking metaphorically, but he can tell that she's still worried about him physically. His injury doesn't even cross his mind until it crosses hers, the pain dulled into a barely-there insignificance. She's fingering the gauze on his side and his own fingers find the hem of her shirt and slip just underneath seeking flesh. She moves his tentative hands aside and pulls the shirt over her head. She's bare underneath the garment and he's pressing up into her to alleviate some of the ache she's exacerbating. Like a contortionist, she manages to get her lounge pants and panties off, gloriously nude, and he's stunned into silence as she rises up a little to slide his jeans down his hips. A few helpful shifts and kicks and he has them to the bottom of the bed.

"Are we doing this more than once?" he questions, her earlobe between his teeth. "Because it's been a _long_ time and I promise it will be infinitely better the second time around." She laughs into his neck and rocks into him and, God, he hopes she doesn't think he's joking. "Not kidding. Don't judge and say I didn't warn you."

"First times are supposed to be awkward."

"I can do awkward." He grins at her.

"Prove it, then."

His eyes roll back when she helps rid him of the last barrier between them and then takes him in her hand, feathering her palm around in light circles.

"It's going to get even more awkward if you keep doing that," he bites his lip hard when he opens his eyes and watches what she's doing. _So not helping._

Without warning, she shifts her hips and he's pressing inside her and this is the best and worst idea in the world. She's whimpering against his cheek and sighs when their bodies are tightly joined, finally no space between them.

_"God, Castle."_

"Uh huh. Don't move for a second." His fingers are gripping her thighs, probably too too tightly, but she needs to hold still just until he can wrap his mind around this and get his body on the same page. Yeah, yeah, like this. He dips himself into the mattress, pulling from her a bit, then back in. Her eyes are closed tightly, mouth open on a gasp and he takes the opportunity to take it with his own. He kisses her with everything he's feeling, so good. She's only half-participating in the kiss, his bottom lip catching between hers intermittently as she pants, moving over him now.

He rests back into the headboard to watch her as she makes love to him, takes his love from him. It's worth it, he decides. His fingers find the knotted skin between her breasts and, for the first time since last summer, he sees her shooting as life-affirming. He meets her eyes and is surprised to find them open, watching him as they sway together. "This okay?" He spreads his fingers, covering the scar, her heart, with his whole hand.

She takes his hand and presses it more firmly to her chest. "Yes," she whispers, face contorting for a moment as he rocks more deeply into her. "It's yours. My heart is yours." Her palms find purchase on his shoulders, her pace quickens and he can't keep the rhythm and is forced to just observe her as she takes him. A moment later, she clutches him fiercely and stills over him. "Love you."

Her climax is fast and hard, but it's not the intense pulses that send him over the edge with her, but her words, mirroring his own. _"God, I love you,"_ she repeats, kissing him, sated and aware, not hiding from her words like he did. He slicks his hands down her back and pulls her to him in an embrace.

He's never letting her go.

**0000000000000000000000000**

The ting of an incoming text message pulls her from her half-sleep state. It's still dark outside, and Castle is draped across her back, warm, heavy, sleepy and naked, and she never fathomed being wrapped up in someone could feel this free. Claustrophobia was usually the panic that skittered into her mind when waking up with a man, though she very rarely made it that far. But, even now, as she leans down to grab her phone, still in the pocket of his denim heaped at the foot of the bed, the slight distance between them feels like too too far.

'_You need to talk?'_ She smiles. Lanie.

'_No clue what you're referring to.' _

'_Right. Did you kill your boy? Javi said it was coming. Need a shovel?'_

Kate laughs. Then groans. His teeth are sinking into her arm near her bicep, immediately soothed by tongue and lips afterwards. She thought he was asleep, but she's so glad he's not.

"Traitors. I can't believe they're plotting my demise," he grumbles, mock offended as he reads over her shoulder, moving his not-so-punishing bites to there, her neck next, then ear.

She types into the phone, even as his hand moves over her hip and across her belly, stirring arousal in its wake. _'We're good Lanie. Will be just fine.'_

"Better than _good_, I think. Should I be offended?"

"Yeah, well, if I tell her that, she'll know exactly what we're doing." She curves her hips back into his and he pulls her closer in response.

"Can we do this thing we're doing…again? Right now?" He rolls her to her back and hovers over her.

"Careful," she breathes, holding him up a bit, so he doesn't pull his injury climbing on top of her. But, damn if he isn't sexy on top of her. Yeah, she wants to do it this way. "Hmm, what exactly is it that we're doing, again?" She smiles into his kiss before he deepens it, pressing through her lips to meet her own tongue. Her phone chimes again and he lifts his head, glares a grin at her, then picks it up.

'_You're quiet. What are you doing?' _Oh, Lanie, if you only knew…

He shows Lanie's text to her, then props himself on his elbows and begins typing one-handed, her distracting mouth forcing him to keep his response short.

'_We're mending.'_

**0000000000000000000000000**

**A/N: Well, that's it. :-) I hope you found it entertaining, and if so, please Review. Heck, if you didn't find it entertaining or want me to do something different or better next time, constructive criticism is just fine, too. Thanks again so much for the support.**


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